The Christmas Card
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: Newt shows up with an unexpected gift when Tina is feeling unsettled, in London for Christmas, missing her sister, and her home. Newtina. Jakweenie.


England doesn't pack on the snow like New York.

New York's snow is hard and slick. The snow on the streets turns a dirty white from motorcar exhausts. It sort of just appears, coating the sidewalks and freezing the pipes with all the lackadaisical grace of any New York native, hardening to slippery patches waiting for any inexperienced pedestrian to fall victim to, much like the typical New Yorker's Christmastime temper.

London is a constant drizzle of flakes and frost, wet and mushy and it piles up in the road in huge rows tracked through with footprints. It keeps her confined to her apartment when she finally does come home from a raid.

The snow is not the only difference from her home. The Ministry is much more proactive here. Much more just, and it feels treasonous to even think it. She's here on MACUSA's dime, on Grindelwald's trail with a team of other choice American investigators, taking out followers in an attempt to rouse him from his hiding place. Its an American tactic…but they never kill. They just lock them up in Azkaban for safekeeping until proven guilty.

And though she's just across town—just a twitch and a snap away, really—from Europe's most skilled and famed magizoologist, she just isn't up for socializing most nights. At least for the past few weeks.

Especially this night. Christmas Eve. After she'd come home to an envelope on her doorstep containing a delicately-penned Christmas card, smelling of fresh baked bread, postmarked from New York City, and signed in familiar script by _Queenie & Jacob Kowalski._

She's sure he feels ignored, at least curious as to why she's been avoiding him. But its been a long and tedious work week, and off the smiling, waving newlyweds' photo on their greeting card, she can't bear to do much more than change into pajamas, set the fireplace alight with a tap of her wand, and grab a book.

She isn't but three chapters in when the air crackles with the pinch of Apparition.

She's drawn from her cozy spot, plucking her wand from the couch cushions to tiptoe into the kitchen, unmoved and mostly grumpy for being interrupted in the midst of Jane Austen.

He's standing in the kitchen, arms full of paper sacks soggy with snow, shivering although his scarf is wound up to his chin. He doesn't look the least bit surprised to be at the receiving end of her wand.

She lowers it with a sigh.

"What are you…?" She helps him unload, plopping the bags on the table and all but shoving him towards the fireplace.

"Its nearly midnight, for goodness sakes," she huffs, exasperated, unwinding his scarf and hanging it on the edge of the mantelpiece.

He can finally feel his lips enough to speak. "Happy Christmas," he stammers, grinning shyly. He discards his gloves on her end table. She reaches, grasping his freezing fingers to bring warmth back into them.

She's concentrated, re-memorizing her map of the veins and freckles on his hands, but he catches sight of the Christmas card now covered by his gloves.

He says nothing, but she follows his gaze. She knows he's received one too. Perhaps that's what spurred his visit in the first place. He knew she'd be pouting. She drops his hands, moving back to the kitchen table to peek into the bags he'd brought.

She doesn't need comforting, she decides quietly to herself, shifting through the packages.

In an attempt to be discreet, he plucks a bag from the table, impossibly small with two tiny white ribbons for handles. He clears his throat, stows it away in his coat pocket. She eyes him suspiciously but turns back to unpacking a box of still-warm pastries, a bottle of Firewhiskey, a stack of Chocolate frog boxes, emblazoned with their special edition gold and red holiday packaging, and two long paper tubes, tied shut at both ends with silver ribbons.

"What are these?" she asks, holding them out.

"Ah…Christmas crackers. Its an English tradition." His eyes glint childishly.

She considers them a moment, and sets them down again, opting to ask more once she's had a few shots of the Firewhiskey.

"It isn't much…" he says quietly, but not apologetically. "But it is Christmas Eve, after all. I got the scraps."

"It's lovely," she said, picking up a Chocolate frog box, turning it over in her hands.

She wanted to be alone. She wanted to read herself to sleep so that she wouldn't have to think about a single thing. Not the distance between her and her sister and her new happy marriage, not a crazed wizard's seedy followers, not the swirling slush of London snow, and not the looming pressure of combating governments never seeing eye to eye.

And yet as always, there he was. Caring for her in ways she had never needed, tending a wound she had covered with ladder climbing and cult-hunting. Bringing out her best parts and mending her worst.

"Shall I…get some glasses?" she asks, trying her best not to sound teary.

He nods, smiling in his knowing way.

They settle on the sofa with the bottle and crackers, and he shows her how they are both supposed to hold the ends and tug.

Hers contains a peppermint that sparks when she crunches it between her teeth, and a gold tissue paper hat.

His green hat clashes horribly with his hair, and he pipes on the little penny whistle, also inside, making her laugh and lean into his shoulder. It's the alcohol, she tells herself, shuffling closer.

The wireless plays from the corner of the room; a languid version of Auld Lang Syne that has her lost between dozing off and remembering her first Christmas with Queenie in their apartment back home...their first turkey, scrawny but enough for them. Queenie had made roasted potatoes, apple pie, and more dishes than they could've possibly eaten on their own. It was a lean time, a difficult time that they had never celebrated without their parents, or without friends from school. It was just them, but it was the fullest her heart had ever felt. Until tonight.

His hand shifts, reaching for his coat pocket. She watches, sitting up straighter, the reverie broken.

"I didn't get you anything," she says, eyeing the tiny white bag again when he pulls it out.

He shakes his head, reaching inside and drawing out an even tinier white box. She takes it in both hands, fingering the lid uncertainly. She knows it isn't what she thinks, and she's relieved.

If this was something of _that_ sort, she would most definitely break into a puddle of sobbing nonsense that no man, especially Newt Scamander, with his tender ways and shy sensibilities, would be able to cope with.

Inside is a gold chain, strung with a clear stone in a gold setting. The stone is beautifully smooth and polished on both sides. It simple, and breathtaking.

"Thank you, its lovely."

Before her eyes, the stone's translucent color transformed to a sapphire blue, catching the yellow firelight on its polished surface. She gasped.

"Oh…"

"Its enchanted…to be linked to only one person. Whenever this person thinks of you, the stone turns blue."

"Newt," she breathes in thanksgiving, looking up to him. His eyes reflect the firelight like the stone, and its so romantically ridiculous that she has to laugh.

"No. Not me," he says, trailing his gaze to the table over her shoulder where the Christmas card still sits, all but forgotten.

Its inevitable this time. Tears sting the corners of her eyes, dripping onto her pajama pants before she can stop it. She wraps her fingers around the stone, still shining beautiful blue in her palm.

He lowers his lips to hers, tilting her chin up just a fraction of an inch. When he pulls away, she notices his crown crumpled and falling into his eyes. She grins, reaching to push it back.

"Happy Christmas," he says again.

"Very much," she says.


End file.
